


Yule Fireside Stories (Five Stories and an Interlude)

by Carenejeans



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Community: hl_shortcuts, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-16
Updated: 2009-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carenejeans/pseuds/Carenejeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Yuletide. Everyone tells a story, but no one tells their own. Stories include extra characters including the Devil, Robert Johnson, Death, Two Gay Angels, Four of Richie's Hoodlum Friends, Yule Trolls, a Giant Cat, A Doctor, A Smith, and Unnamed Irate Householders</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yule Fireside Stories (Five Stories and an Interlude)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silentflux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentflux/gifts).



> There's a teeny bit of slash in Amanda's Story and the Interlude that follows. Otherwise it's gen as all heck. "Death and Doctor Hornbook," by Robert Burns, can be found at [Burns Country](http://www.robertburns.org/works/60.shtml). It includes a helpful glossary 8-).

It was cold on the streets of Seacouver, but Duncan's loft was filled with warmth and light and the smell of roasted bird and baked bread and popcorn, overlaid with the aroma of shortbread, stollen, and fruitcake. Over it all hung the scent of pine from wreaths of juniper and holly festooned to the walls.

Amanda helped herself from a glittering pile of pastries as if they were jewels as rare as the ones glittering at her throat. Methos stretched out on the couch, his nose in a book, and only moved over when Duncan nudged him. Joe sat in a chair with a new (to him) Gibson L-1 flat-top, a gift from Duncan, and softly picked out a bluesy version of an old carol. Richie sat engrossed with a tiny laptop, and Duncan was sipping at a glass of hundred-year-old scotch. For it was the Winter Solstice, and Duncan's birthday. Everyone had gifts.

Joe tossed a package to Duncan. "Happy birthday."

"One more?" Duncan held the package up to his ear and shook it. It made no sound. He frowned at it and felt it all over, then held it to his nose.

Joe rolled his eyes. "Just open it."

Duncan shredded the thin glittery paper. He smiled. "A picture of you."

"Just wait. Watch it."

Duncan watched as the picture in the frame changed from Joe to Amanda, to Richie, to Methos... to Tessa and Connor, to Fitz and the De Valincourts. "This is amazing," he said, as the photos went further back in time, not all of them very good, but still catching at his heart. Sean Burns. Kit O'Brady. Charlie DeSalvo. Anne Lindsay. Some of the pictures were from a long, long time ago. Black and white photos, bad Polaroid colors, fuzzy and faded sepia, grainy newspaper photos, photos of official painted portraits. Cory Raines, Hideo Koto. Grace Chandel. Darius. "Where did you get all these?" But he knew.

"Watcher files," Joe said. " _Totally_ against the rules."

"You stole all of these from the Watchers?" Duncan said. "I didn't even know some of these existed."

"I had help," Joe said.

Duncan looked around the room at four smiling faces. "My closest friends," he grinned, "an international ring of photo thieves."

"The _best_ international ring of photo thieves," Amanda said smugly.

"With a mastermind history detective," Methos put in.

"I took the pictures of Tessa myself," Richie said wistfully.

Duncan felt his throat constrict. "I remember," he said softly. "Thanks, all of you." His hands caressed the photo frame as he looked at the faces of his old friends. "Wow," he said, breaking the silence that had fallen. "That's a really bad haircut."

Amanda draped herself over his shoulder. "Well, thanks a lot."

"I was talking about mine."

"Ah, yes. A touch too much pomade."

"Here's a picture of Methos with his -- bare butt on a copier?"

"Give me that," Methos grabbed it. "Oh right. Fun times at Watcher Headquarters. Where did you get this?"

"Hey, you're not the only mastermind history detective," Joe said. "I was in research too. I have my spies."

"I think I'd better put this away before something even more incriminating pops up," Duncan stood up, and Amanda slipped onto the couch next to Methos. Duncan looked at the photo frame a few seconds longer, then reluctantly put it on a shelf. "Where's the popcorn?" he said heartily. "Who's going first?"

Methos groaned.

"I'll get the glogg," Richie said happily.

Amanda dug an elbow into Methos's side. "Methos will start."

"Why me?" Methos said, elbowing her back. He took a long swig from the mug Richie handed him. His eyes widened. "What's in this? Besides more alcohol than should fit into a mug?"

"I don't remember," said Richie. "It started out with Everclear and ended with wine, with a lot of... spices and stuff in between. And vodka."

"I can feel it pickling my brain even as we speak," Methos took another drink. "Why do I go first?"

"Because you always tell the best stories," Joe said, tipping his glass of sensible scotch in Methos's direction. "Some of them are even true."

"I never lie," Methos said. "I just... bend the truth a little."

Joe gave him a look.

"You bend more than the truth," Duncan said "You bend good taste, sense, and every rule of joke-telling known to humanity. Tell us the one about the dead frog."

Everyone groaned.

"We've _heard_ that one, Duncan darling," Amanda said, elbowing Methos again. "More than _once_."

He elbowed her back, again. "But it's different every time. Though it always starts the same way. A man," he said, slowly, "walked into a bar in Babylon..."

Duncan snorted.

"Do you need something for that nose? A hanky? Benadryl?"

"Just tell your story."

Methos held out his mug for Richie to refill. "How do mortals drink this and live?" He leaned back, holding his mug aloft. "Well, seeing as how it's Christmas, I'll tell you a tale about the Devil."

### Methos's Story: The Lad and The Devil

"A lad is walking through the woods," Methos began. "He's got a bag full of walnuts and is cracking them with his teeth."

"Ow," Richie said. "Hard on the molars."

"They're supposed to be for the Christmas pudding -- no wait -- he's traded the family cow for them," Amanda chipped in.

Methos elbowed her. "Right."

"Which one?"

"Either. And since he was already in deep trouble, it gets worse. The Devil appeared in his path."

"Man, I hate when that happens," Joe said.

"So the lad, thinking fast, says, 'I've heard you can make yourself really small and get into things nobody else can.' And he held out a walnut that had a tiny wormhole in it. Of course, the Devil can't resist a challenge like that, so he makes himself smaller than a --"

Duncan held up his hand. "What kind of worm?" he said seriously.

"A walnut worm. Don't interrupt."

Duncan grinned.

"The Devil makes himself really really small. "Methos held his thumb and forefinger together in front of Amanda's face. She crossed her eyes at him. "And jumps through the wormhole into the nut. As soon as he's in there nice and tight, the lad plugs the wormhole with a wooden peg -- that he happens to have in his pocket because he was pegging wood earlier," he raised his voice as Duncan started to speak again. "And so the Devil was trapped inside the walnut shell."

"That's handy," Joe nodded.

"The lad continues on his way home, and on the way, he passes the village blacksmith shop."

"Blacksmith shop?" Amanda said. "Where did this happen, Fargo?"

"No, smart stuff, in Norway. In ... a village in the woods. Around the time people ran blacksmith shops. Stop interrupting."

"Sorry," Amanda waved a hand. She stood up and stretched. Everyone watched her. She smiled to herself and put a hand on Joe's shoulder. Joe smiled to himself too. "Just wanted to make sure you've got your story straight."

"The lad gets an idea, and goes into the shop. He asks the blacksmith, 'Can you crack this nut?'"

"Why would he do that?" Richie said. "I mean, he's got the devil trapped in there, so why let him out again?"

"How do I know? I'm just telling the story the way I heard it. You'll have to ask a Norwegian. The blacksmith says, 'What? Crack that little nut? Sure!' He puts the nut on his anvil and gives it a good whack with his hammer. The nut doesn't break."

"Probably because there's a devil in---" Joe began.

"So the blacksmith gets a bigger hammer," Methos said over him. "And takes another whack at it. The nut still doesn't break. So he curses and growls and get his biggest hammer and throws his whole weight into the swing and brings his hammer down --"

Methos paused and looked around at the expectant faces of his audience. "And the nut explodes into a hundred million pieces and blows the roof off the smithy."

"No!" Duncan exclaimed in mock horror.

"Cool!" Richie said.

"Because there's a de--" Joe began again. Amanda clapped her hand over his mouth. "And then what?"

"And then the Smith says, 'I do believe the devil himself was in that nut!' And the lad answers, 'And so he was.'"

Methos picked up his mug and took a satisfied sip. There was silence amongst his listeners.

"Is that it?" Joe said finally.

"What? Oh," Methos said. "I forgot to say: The End."

There was another silence.

"That was almost as bad as the dead frog joke," Duncan said.

"Almost," Methos agreed. "Almost."

"I'll get more glogg," Richie said.

Joe stood up. "Gotta see a man about a dog."

Duncan sat down next to Methos with a big bowl. "Popcorn?"

  
********

"I'll go next," Amanda said, settling in Joe's chair. "I read this fabulous story the other day. Although," she looked dubiously at the faces of her male companions. "Maybe you're not quite the audience for it. Oh well," she said brightly. "It's still good."

"This story you read," Duncan said. "Was it in a book with a pink cover?"

"Oh, no," Amanda assured him, "It was dark. Black. Maybe a bit of red."

Methos started to say something, decided against it, and stuffed his mouth with popcorn instead.

Joe came back in, leaned on his cane for second, then sighed and sat down on the loveseat next to Richie. "What's your story, Miss Amanda?" Joe tipped his glass in her direction.

"Yeah," Duncan said, smiling. "What's it going to be? A tale of international intrigue? Smuggling? The heist of... whatever century?"

"Tch, Duncan," she pouted at him. "None of those things. My story isn't about intrigue or," she made a face at Duncan, "crime. My story is about... love."

"Uh oh," said Joe.

"Love always makes a good story," Methos said dryly.

"Yeah," Duncan said, looking wistful for a moment. "Sometimes, though, it makes a better story after it's over -- long over." Then he caught Amanda's eye and smiled. "On the other hand, sometimes it's a _really good_ story in _progress_."

"Good save," Methos murmured into his mug.

"Boring," Richie pronounced.

"Our young friend is still at the exploding cars stage of storytelling," Metho said. "A story has to have a high speed chase scene in it for him to notice there's something going on at all."

"I just don't like all that hearts and flowers stuff," Richie said.

"Whoever told you," Joe said rather heavily, "that love was all about hearts and flowers?"

"Amanda has the floor. Go ahead," Methos said. "Ignore the young critic here and proceed. We're all ears." He grabbed his ears and waggled them at her.

"Methos is in-ee-bree-ated," Joe said.

"It better not be sappy, that's all," said Richie. "I forgot my violin."

Amanda sat still for a moment, like an actress about to go onstage. Then she began her story.

  


### Amanda's Story: A Hell-Raising Angel and a Heaven-Sent Devil

"Once upon a time..." There was a short but aborted protest from Richie, cut off by Joe's cane thumping his foot. He shrugged and sat back, all innocence and feigned interest. "Once upon a time," Amanda continued, "There were two angels."

Everyone looked at Richie. He raised his hands in surrender. "Two angels, great. What could be better than two angels?"

"One angel came from hell. He was a junior demon first class, but he was kicked out for being good. It seems that, like a lot of young angels, he liked the ladies. But he didn't confine himself to lady demons, he--"

"Wait a minute," Richie said, "first you say he's an angel and the next minute he's a demon, then an angel again. Which is it?"

"All demons are angels, Richie," Duncan said. "Because of how Lucifer was banished from heaven."

"Right," Richie said, but still looking confused. "That's in the Bible, right?"

"Actually, no," Methos said. "It's mostly from the epic poem by John Milton. Paradise Lost. Haven't you read it?"

Richie shook his head.

"No exploding cars in it," Joe said. Richie gave him a dirty look.

"The story goes," Duncan said, "Lucifer was banished from heaven, and when he went down to hell a bunch of angels went with him. So there's bad angels, and good angels. But they all come from the same, uh, stock."

"May I continue?" Amanda said politely.

"Sorry," Richie said. "Go on. There's a demon angel guy from hell, who likes ladies. What does he do? Eat them for dinner?"

"No, he didn't eat them for dinner. He was very, very good to the ladies. But unfortunately, he didn't just dally with his fellow lady demons. Carrying on with one's peers in evil is fine. But this angel -- we'll call him Bob..."

"Bob?" said Richie. "Sorry," he said as Amanda glared at him.

"All right, she conceded, "we'll call him Dylan. Is that better?'

"Marginally," Richie said. "At least I don't have to try to imagine an angel named Bob having sex with demons. Go on. Dylan..."

"Dylan," Amanda continued, "would take up with human women who had been sent to hell to be, you know, tormented with fire and brimstone things like that," she waved a hand, as if that part wasn't important. "The only trouble is, having hot sex with a good-looking demonic angel is not usually considered _torture_. And Dylan was _definitely_ good-looking. He was dark-haired and grey-eyed, really nice body, kept in shape, you know. Cupid bow lips, a nose that was a little large, and absolutely adorable ears."

Duncan frowned over the top of his mug at Methos, who looked like a cat who had gotten into the cream. "Doesn't sound at all like anyone we know, does it?"

Amanda looked blank.

"My eyes are hazel," Methos said calmly.

"You mean Methos?" Amanda wrinkled her nose and looked first at Duncan then at Methos. "Dylan is not like anyone we know," she insisted. "He's got _grey_ eyes. And he's a fictional person. Anyway," she said with an air of having cleared everything up to her satisfaction. "Where was I?"

"Adorable ears," Duncan said, pointedly not looking at the pair closest to him.

"Big nose," Joe added.

"Hot sex," Richie said. Methos suppressed a laugh, which made him choke. Duncan hit him with a pillow. Methos caught it and clamped it over his face, his shoulders shaking.

"Abso-fuckin-total-lutely shit-faced," Joe said.

"Are you okay? Good." Amanda continued. "So Dylan had been given a warning, then a talking to, then a yelling at, then was finally kicked out of hell on his very nice looking ass. He found himself on the streets of Earth. He looked around.

"'So this is Earth,' he thought. He was pretty impressed. He'd never been here, you see. He'd only heard about it second hand, pillow talk, you know -- or when..."

"Or when the ladies getting their toenails done the hard way 'fessed up to their sins?" Methos said around his pillow.

"Right," Amanda said. " _I'm_ telling this story. Since these women were confessing great crimes of passion, orgies steeped in the pleasures of the flesh, extravagant sins of lust and carnal delights..."

"Because most women go to hell for sexual indiscretions, rather than, say, relieving Cartier of excess stock," Duncan said dryly.

"Well, our Dylan was assigned to the Sins of Lust Department," Amanda said smoothly. "Expert cat burglars were taken care of by another demon."

"So," Joe said, "our demon is pretty horny and getting his motor cranked regularly in Hell, but now he's on the streets of -- where is he?"

"Paris, of course," Amanda said. "Where do you expect him to surface, Tarzana?"

"Hey, don't knock Tarzana," Richie said. "Tarzana is a nice place."

"But it ain't Paris," Joe said.

" _As_ I was saying," Amanda said pointedly, "This was the first time Dylan had ever been to earth, much less Paris. He was thrilled, and excited, and kind of, well, lost. It's a good thing he met Vinnie --"

"Vinnie?" Richie said in disbelief. "An angel named Vinnie?"

"Why not? It's short for Vincente or something. "Vinnie came from heaven, but he had been kicked out for--"

"Let me guess. For being a bad little angel?" Duncan said.

"For playing his harp too loud and disturbing the old angels," Amanda said. "And... he was a bit of a troublemaker. So St. Peter kicked him downstairs and told him to come back once he'd gotten the devil knocked out of him."

"Which is just what would happen the minute he said to someone, 'Hi, I'm Vinnie. I'm an angel,' Richie said.

"This was the first time Vinnie had been down to earth," Amanda said, ignoring him. "So he was pretty excited. He'd always get the girls who came to heaven to tell him what it was like. He was a bit confused, though, since they made it sound so dull. Well, of course they would, being good girls. But Vinnie couldn't see how anyone could actually find any sin in such a place. He knew people did, but those people didn't normally cross his path, so he was very curious once he actually got down to earth. Luckily, the first person he met was Dylan."

"Imagine that," Joe said.

"Now Vinnie was just about as cute as Dylan," Amanda said. "He could tell right away that Dylan was a fellow angel by some angel radar that only they can use, but on the other team -- even though he was dressed kind of nerdy for a demon. Dylan was in disguise you see, and thought Dockers made him look like a Good Guy. He --"

"Wait a minute, back up," Joe said. "What does this good angel look like? Does he look like a fictional person too?"

"He looked like Duncan," Amanda said impatiently.

Duncan looked smug.

"Only with wings," Amanda said. "Long, white, feathery wings that came down to the ground."

Duncan's smile faltered. Methos grinned.

Amanda looked at him from the corner of her eye. "I forgot to mention that Dylan had wings, too. Long, black leathery wings that came down to the ground. Dragged a little."

Richie put his face in his hands. Joe hid a smile.

"So Vinnie sat down next to Dylan and --"

"I'm not sure I want to know how this story is going to go," Richie burst out. "There's two guys who are angels, for Gods sake, and they meet up on earth, what are the odds? And their names are Dylan and Vinnie. This is going to be one of those chick stories, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you mean," Amanda said innocently.

"I think I'll just take a walk around the block," Richie said. "The long way."

"Shut up and listen, Richie," Joe said.

"Well, okay, but I'm gonna need a refill." He held out his mug.

Joe refilled Richie's mug from the glogg pitcher, smiling. (Secretly, he suspected it was going to be a chick story, too.)

"Vinnie sat down next to Dylan, and said, 'Come here often?'"

Richie choked on his glogg. Joe pounded him on the back, a little more vigorously than was necessary.

"The two of them got to talking, and realized they wanted the same thing: to meet women. Only Dylan wanted to meet nice women, just for the novelty of it; and Vinnie wanted to meet bad women, so he could figure out why they didn't come to heaven. Both of them were experienced with the kind of women they were used to meeting, but absolutely clueless when it came to the other kind. But they thought they could help each other out.

"Dylan only knew about clubs and whorehouses and casinos, places like that. And Vinnie only knew about church socials and youth clubs and Disneyland. So they took turns, showing each other the delights of sin and the personal satisfaction of being good. Eventually, since they were both very hot, sexy guys, they found themselves practically _drowning_ in women."

"What a way to go," Richie said.

"So they were both pretty busy for a while. One day, Dylan happened to walk past the bench where he first met Vinnie -- and there he was. He watched his angelic buddy for a moment, and noticed that women, both good and bad, were looking him over -- covertly or hopefully -- as they walked by. But Vinnie just sat there and looked at his shoes.

"'Hey,' Dylan said, sitting down. 'You look pretty miserable for an angel from heaven.'

"'Oh, God,' Vinnie said. 'It's gone all wrong!'

"'What's the problem? Last time I saw you, you had a woman on each arm, with sin in their hearts.'

"'Not anymore.'

"'No more women?'

"'Oh, plenty of women," Vinnie said bitterly. 'Dozens. Scores. Hundreds!' he said, getting a bit carried away. 'Enough women to fill Heaven, and no doubt will!'

"'Eh?' Dylan said, though he had a sudden feeling he knew what Vinnie's problem was.

"'It's like this,' Vinnie said. 'I hook up with a really hot babe -- a total slut who's never seen a pair of crotchless panties she didn't like, carries Jack Daniels in her purse, and beats up little old ladies for their Social Security checks -- a really _bad_ woman, a whore of Babylon, you get me?'

"'Uh huh,' Dylan said.

"'But there's something, I don't know, contagious about me. My heavenly purity rubs off on them and sooner than --' he snapped his fingers -- 'they're talking about reforming. Reforming! Pretty soon they're going to church, helping out at the food kitchen, going Green. They turn _good_ on me.' He scoffed. 'I can't tell you how many women I've saved from the clutches of the likes of you.'

"'That's interesting,' Dylan said slowly. 'Because I've been having the opposite problem. I meet these very nice girls at church, and we go to a picnic or a chaperoned dance, and all the time they're giving me these sideways looks. Appears there's a certain kind of girl who can sniff out a bad boy in nerds' clothing. I stand there in my nice khaki pants and wrinkle-free cotton shirts, and what do they see?'

"Suddenly before Vinnie's startled eyes there appeared this... winged vision in black leather and boots, looking at him over dark sunglasses. Vinnie's mouth suddenly went dry."

Methos coughed.

Duncan felt his mouth go dry.

Richie looked at the ceiling.

"'That's... that's terrible,' Vinnie said, kind of stammering. 'I can see why that would be upsetting. You've been Good all your life and suddenly there's this totally butch devil -- I mean, I mean... the girls, of course. Um.'

"Dylan was staring at him. 'You too, Vinnie?'

"'Nononono,' Vinnie said, 'I just um. I just -- is it hot in here?'

"Dylan looked at Vinnie. He'd never really noticed his _lovely_ big brown eyes, and how really _fine_ he looked in that white sweater. It sort of made you want to put your hands under it and --" Amanda pantomimed --"find out what was under it." She cut her eyes at Duncan and Methos, sitting side by side on the couch, looking as though they were about to sprout wings and take off.

"Chick. Story." Richie said to his mug. Joe chuckled silently.

"'It does feel a bit warm," Dylan allowed. 'Why don't we go someplace where you can take off that heavy sweater.'

"'We can do that?' Vinnie said hopefully, searching Dylan's face. 'You've got a place?'

"Dylan slung an arm round Vinnie and pointed to an alley. 'Follow me.'

"Vinnie thought he could smell a touch of brimstone when Dylan touched him. Dylan swore he could see the gates of paradise open into that little alley."

Methos stood up suddenly. "I've um, I left something in the dojo. I'll be right back."

Duncan stood up too. "I'll help him find it," he said.

"Find what?" Amanda said sweetly.

"A --" Duncan stopped.

"A fruitcake," Methos said. "I left a fruitcake downstairs. In Duncan's office. So. Be right back." He backed quickly towards the exit, with Duncan following. The others could hear them bumbling down the stairs.

"Now see what you've done?" Joe said mildly.

"They could have at least invited me," Amanda pouted. "Ah well," she waved her hand. "I'm sure they'll enjoy the fruitcake all on their own."

"Everyone here is nutty as one," Richie said in disgust. "And this pitcher is empty. I'm going to get more glogg." He stood up. Then sat down. "In a minute."

  


### Interlude: In the Dojo

Methos didn't even wait until they cleared the stairs before he mashed Duncan against the wall and put his hands up under Duncan's white sweater.

"Oh, Vinnie, my Vinnie," Methos laughed softly, "Where are your wings?"

"Ah. Augh. Ah," Duncan said. "Office. Over there."

"Mmmmm," Methos said against Duncan's neck.

"Okay, right here, then," Duncan breathed.

Methos laughed and kissed Duncan's ear. "Nobody up there is going to come through that door."

"God. We were obvious."

"Very," Methos agreed. His hand pressed against Duncan's cock. "Obvious."

Duncan pulled Methos roughly to him, but Methos slipped through his embrace, and grinning, vaulted down the rest of the stairs. Duncan leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, watching Methos saunter across the dojo. "Dylan," he said under his breath. "Right."

He sauntered after him, hitching his jeans, as they'd gotten a bit tight.

"What are you doing, MacLeod?" Methos said as Duncan peered around the office, opening drawers and looking under the desk.

"Looking for your fruitcake. Doesn't seem to be here," he said. "Maybe it was stolen by the Christmas Fruitcake Burglar. Oh." He said, as Methos backed him up against the wall and ground his crotch against Duncan's.

They laughed in each other's ears as they unzipped each other's jeans, then stopped laughing for a bit, since it's hard to laugh when someone -- whether angel or devil -- has got his fist wrapped around your cock, and you've got your fist wrapped around his. The two of them banged around the office like a Christmas wind-up toy gone crazy, kissing and biting and breathing hard until they were both spent, and limp, and still horny.

"Later," Duncan said. "Again. Promise."

"Again and again," Methos said. "I promise."

Then they were laughing again, trying to help each other to become presentable upstairs, and failing pretty badly.

"Oops." Methos said.

"Quickly?"

"Yes, yes," Methos said. "Oh."

And then they were rolling each other along the wall, their hands held tight over their two cocks squeezed together, laughing and moaning. They rolled slowly to a stop, and Duncan kissed Methos thoroughly before saying. "Okay -- two steps!" and they both took two steps backwards, away from each other, and tried to look serious as they put their clothes back in order.

"I do like this sweater," Methos said, giving a tug to its hem.

"Black leather, hmmm?" Duncan said as they headed towards the lift.

********

Duncan and Methos returned to the loft looking so sheepish that even Richie grinned.

Joe was setting up his stage. He produced a bottle of rare Kentucky bourbon and poured a shot for everyone. "Need bourbon for this story." He sat down in the chair with his new vintage guitar and strummed it lightly, tuning it a bit. "I'll need some lighting too." Amanda dimmed the lights, then turned a lamp towards Joe, bathing him in a warm golden spotlight. The others took up their drinks and ringed themselves comfortably around him, in an intimate re-creation of Joe's bar.

"They say," Joe said, "you want to make a deal with the devil, it works like this. You go down to the crossroads with your guitar. Pretty soon a big black man will walk up to where you stand and take your guitar. Then he'll tune it and play a piece. When he hands it back, you can play any tune you want to."

  


### Joe's Story: The Absolutely True Legend of Robert Johnson at the Crossroads

"There was this guy, you've probably heard of him, named Robert Johnson, who wanted to play the blues. But the way he banged on his old guitar was so bad that when he walked into a juke joint, people walked out. He was so bad that Son House told him to get lost. 'Man, all you got to do is pick up a guitar and it clears the room,' he told him. 'You're so bad a dog wouldn't want to hear it. I can't use that. Sorry, son.'"

Joe looked around at his audience. They settled in their seats, relaxing into a story that was old and had been told before -- and would again, in a hundred different ways. This was Joe's way of telling it.

"So he slung his guitar over his shoulder and went down to the crossroads," Joe said. "Just like he was told to do by some half-witchy woman he knew. He got there just before midnight, and he waited. It was a dark night, no moon to speak of, and cold as hell. He was all alone there, nobody on the road for miles. He stood with his guitar in his hands, and he waited." Joe played a gentle riff from Johnson's "Crossroad Blues."

"He waited until the biggest, blackest man he'd ever seen appeared right there at the crossroads without traveling down the west road" -- Joe pointed -- "or the east road, the north road _or_ the south road. He wasn't there one minute, and the next minute, there he was."

Joe leaned forward, his arms resting on his guitar. "Now, Johnson knows it's the Devil he's talking to, so he says straight out, 'I want to play the blues.' 'I know you do, the Devil tells him. But I'll need something in return.' 'I will give you my soul,' says Johnson, 'if that's what it takes.'"

"Like in the movie." Richie hadn't heard this tale before. Amanda nudged him.

"Right," Duncan said softly.

Methos smiled.

Joe leaned back in the chair and played a jumpy little run on the strings. "But the Devil just laughs. 'Why would I make a deal for your ugly soul?' he says. 'I'm gonna get it anyway, one way or another." Joe smiled and shook his head. "'No,' he says. 'I just want you to play this one song when you get back to Robinsonville. Dig? Give me your piece.' He takes Johnson's guitar and tunes it. Then he plays a little bit, that sounds like nothing Johnson has ever heard -- and just like everything he's heard all his life."

Methos nodded to himself, in the shadows.

"Well, the Devil, he throws back his big black head and _howls_ out a blues song. And Johnson knows, right there, why the blues is called the Devil's music. Johnson wants that song so bad, and he's scared of it too. Just like I'm afraid of them, sometimes. Every blues player worth his salt knows just what went through Johnson's mind right then. It's a humbling, scary, exhilarating feeling once you get, it never lets you go." He sat for a moment, looking at something beyond his little audience, beyond the loft, beyond Seacouver and even the world. His fingers danced along the strings, playing the blues. He looked down at them, surprised, as if he hadn't even known they were moving.

"The Devil grins, does a little dance step." Joe wiggled his shoulders and winked at Amanda. She grinned and waggled her shoulders back at him. "And he hands the guitar back to Johnson. 'You just play that song for people, just like I played it for you. And you tell a story about how you got the song from the Devil and you sold your soul for it.'

"'I thought you didn't want my soul,' Johnson says, and the Devils says, 'Naw, I don't. But the story's better that way.' He gives Johnson a big wink to let him in on the joke. 'So that's the way you tell it.'

"'Well, I reckon that's right,' Johnson says. The Devil, he gives him a big wide old grin. 'Then we have a deal?' 'Deal,' says Johnson. They shake hands on it -- and Johnson thinks the Devil's hand is kind of cold."

Amanda Shivered.

"The Devil hands his guitar back to him and Johnson takes it like it's made of gold. He plays a few notes and --" Joe played a harsh, off key chord and his audience all start and wince.

"He ain't magically playing better -- and he thinks to himself, 'man, it's a good thing I didn't sell my soul to this guy.'" Joe grinned, and his audience laughed.

"Out loud he says to the Devil, 'Then you're not gonna help me?' And the Devil says, 'Son, you're not paying attention. Now, listen up, 'cause this right here is your Christmas present.'"

"A Christmas present from the Devil," Richie shook his head.

"'What you gotta do," the Devil tells him. 'Is go down to Arkansas and get yourself a place with a chair in it. You sit your ass down in that chair and practice. You practice every day, until you don't hit a bad note but once in a while, then you go out to the juke joints and the lumber yards and you play. You do that for one or two years. Then come on back here. Folks'll think you're so good it's magic.'"

Joe plays a riff from the uptempo version of "Come On In My Kitchen," and Methos grins. Amanda and Duncan rub shoulders like they're dancing in their chairs, and Richie rolls his eyes. "The Devil sounds a lot like Duncan." Duncan makes a face at him.

Joe slows down the song. He plays a few slow bars, and looks up at his audience. "And so that's what Johnson did. Only, you know what? He never did play the song just the way the Devil told him to. He sang it his own way.

 _"I went to the crossroad  
Fell down on my knees  
I went to the crossroad  
Fell down on my knees  
Asked the Lord above, Have mercy now  
Save poor Bob, if you please_

 _"Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm,"_ Joe shook his head. "He never did tell the story about the crossroads, either. He didn't have to. 'Cause, you know..." He played a fast run up and down the neck of his guitar. "A lot of other people did that for him." He ended with the last four bars of "Crossroad Blues," touching the strings lightly and letting the notes fade away.

After a beat, Joe grinned, and started playing something fast that sounded like the blues all tied up in sparkly ribbon. "So, let's sing a rockin' Christmas song -- come on Richie, stop scowling. I know you know this one, too. One, two, one two three four--"

******

After they'd sung a few Christmas oldies and a carol or two, there was an understated commotion of hand signals and significant glances between four members of the party, leaving the fifth -- Duncan -- a bit bemused. Joe filled beer glasses for them all, which made them look suspiciously like props, which they were. Methos smiled and raised his beer as a signal, and the others all raised theirs, so Duncan did too.

Methos turned to Duncan. "And now a song for the Highlander in our midst, our noble Scot, our own son of Alba, our Gaelic friend --"

Joe started strumming a tune on his guitar that even the most unmusical person would recognize as coming from the Scottish Highlands.

"All right, enough, enough," Duncan laughed. "This is going to be bad, isn't it?"

"Bad? What bad could there be on Yuletide among friends?"

Joe played a flourish on the guitar and waggled his eyebrows. Richie and Amanda were grinning and starting to tap their feet.

"It's going to be bad," Duncan groaned.

Joe threw his head back like an old rockabilly singer.

 _"Wuuuueeeelll --_

\-- And they all joined in --

 _Bannocks o' bear meal,  
Bannocks o' barley,  
Here's to the Highlandman's  
Bannocks o' barley! _

Joe's voice was rich and sure. The others wavered a bit, but they made up for it in enthusiasm. Duncan laughed so hard he fell over sideways.

 _Wha, in a brulyie, will  
First cry a parley?  
Never the lads wi' the  
Bannocks o' barley!_

Methos clapped, and Joe beat a rhythm on his guitar, while Richie and Amanda linked arms and spun around in a stomping beer hall sort of dance -- not precisely a Scottish dance, but a dance that would be familiar anywhere in the world where beer was a significant part of the night's festivities.

 _Bannocks o' bear meal,  
Bannocks o' barley,  
Here's to the Highlandman's  
Bannocks o' barley! _

Duncan, grinning like a loon, joined in singing:

 _Wha, in his wae days,  
Were loyal to Charlie?  
Wha but the lads wi' the  
Bannocks o' barley! _

Then he took Amanda's hand and joined in the dance, capering and kicking his knees up while flashing a pretend kilt like a can-can dancer.

 _Bannocks o' bear meal,  
Bannocks o' barley,  
Here's to the Highlandman's  
Bannocks o' barley!_

With Methos directing with his beer glass, they started from the top and sang the whole thing over again, dancing and stomping in a circle around Joe's chair, where he sat banging at his guitar. Duncan gleefully pounded out a rhythm on everything within reach, including his friends.

  
*********

  
When the last chorus faded into away, and the singers, laughing and poking at Duncan, had settled back to their chairs and their drinks, Duncan stood.

"Well, now," he said, his Scots accent so thick you could cut it with a rusty sword, "That calls for a tale fra' the man his 'seil."

"His what?" Richie said.

"The. Man. Him. Self." Duncan translated ponderously. "A tale from the greatest poet of Scotland!"

"William Topaz McGonagall!" Methos sang out.

" _Not_ William McGonagall," Duncan said. "The great Robbie Burns is the man I mean!" He looked around the room and smiled. "Who wrote a poem called "Death and Doctor Hornbook."

"Is this going to be long?" Richie said.

"Aye, gud and lang."

"Lang, huh? Better fill me up again, then," Richie said.

" _This_ one calls for Scotch," Duncan said, and passed around the birthday bottle.

  


### Duncan's Story: Death and Doctor Hornbook

Duncan began, reciting from memory:

"Some books are lies frae end to end,  
And some great lies were never penn'd:  
Ev'n ministers they hae been kenn'd,  
In holy rapture,  
A rousing whid at times to vend,  
And nail't wi' Scripture.

"But this that I am gaun to tell,  
Which lately on a night befell,  
Is just as true's the Deil's in hell  
Or Dublin city:  
That e'er he nearer comes oursel'  
'S a muckle pity."

"I can't understand a word he's saying," Richie complained.

"Shhh," Amanda said.

Joe hid a smile.

"This is a true story," Duncan said in English. "It was a clear spring night under a full moon. I'd been drinking at the village inn. Not enough to make me as drunk as you all are," he grinned. "Just enough to make me feel pretty good and --" he made a staggering wobble towards Richie, "--stagger a bit. But not enough to fall into a ditch. And I could tell a bush from a banshee."

Joe gave him a bartender's eye. "Not if you were staggering that bad, my friend."

"I'd just come around a bend in the road, near Willie's Mill, just feeling pretty good that I could still stand up, when suddenly --"

"Who is Willie?" Richie said.

"Willie is the Miller," Duncan said. "Weren't you listening? Suddenly --"

"What kind of mill?"

"A mill to grind your American bones for bread," Duncan said, glowering at Richie. "May I continue? I'm at the suspenseful part."

"Sorry," Richie said.

"I there wi' _Something_ did forgather, (Duncan recited)  
That pat me in an eerie swither;  
An' awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,  
Clear-dangling, hang;  
A three-tae'd leister on the ither  
Lay, large an' lang.

"Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,  
The queerest shape that e'er I saw,  
For fient a wame it had ava;  
And then its shanks,  
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma'  
As cheeks o' branks."

"Ooookay," Richie said.

"Death," Methos stage-whispered.

"Oh." Richie shuddered.

"'Good evening,' I said. 'Friend! Have you been mowing while other folk be busy sowing?' Just a little joke, because I was quaking in my boots, thinking he'd come for me."

Methos sipped from the dark liquid in his glass, and leaned further back in the cushions.

"'My name is Death,' the eldritch figure said to me -- in a kindly voice, considering. 'But don't be afraid.' I wasn't having any o' that. I drew my sword and waved it in his bony face, 'Ye just try an' get me!' Duncan paused. "Well, I was drunk."

"No shit." Richie said.

"But Death wasn't coming for me that night," Duncan said. "So we shook hands, and sat down together there under the night sky."

"Very civilized," Methos murmured.

"I guess you've been on many a road," I said, "And at many a house, in your travels."

"'Oh, aye,' he said, shaking his head. 'It's been a long, long time, indeed, since I began to --" Duncan pantomimed a sword sweeping through air, " 'Nick the thread, and choke the breath. But,' the uncanny creature shrugged, 'folk maun do something for their bread, an' sae maun Death.' "

"Even Death. Huh." Joe said.

Methos sipped placidly from his glass.

"'But in all that time -- six thousand years -- no one had been able to stop me or scare me. Until,' Death said ominously. 'Along came that fellow Hornbook. The Devil make his balls into a spleuchan!'"

"A what?" Richie said.

"Tobacco pouch," Methos translated.

"Ouch," Joe said.

"See, here's a scythe," Duncan recited, "an' there's a dart,  
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart;  
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art  
An' cursed skill,  
Has made them baith no worth a fart,  
Damn'd haet they'll kill!"

Duncan stood tall, and threw back his shoulders, looking as menacing as a King of the under-world. "Death drew himself up angrily and let loose with a fury. 'This damned Doctor! I have my scythe ready, I bring it down -- but nothing happens. I throw my dart, it hits its target and -- nothing! It's blunt, it falls, it wouldn't pierce the heart of a cabbage! And you know why?' Death pointed a long bony finger at my chest, and I couldn't help but cringe away. 'Doctor Hornbook! Doctor Hornbook had _cured_ them.'

"He ground one skeletal fist into a bony palm. I stepped back in case he decided to take a poke at me. But the only man in the world on Death's mind was his new adversary.

"'Bah,' Death spat out. 'He even cures people he's never seen. They just shit in a cabbage leaf and send it to him. He smells it and knows what their ailment is and what will cure it. By the _smell!'_

"Death stalked up and down the shadowed lane, muttering and complaining, more to himself than to me. 'He's got saws and knives, he's got boxes, mugs and bottles, he's got every kind of pots all filled with spirits with Latin names he can rattle off like your ABCs. He's got pills and potions, shavings, filings, scrapings -- all sorts of awful things.'"

Duncan paused. "I wanted to be sympathic, but couldn't help but be glad for Doctor Hornbook's patients. Until he told me more...

"'Well,' I said, 'if all that's true, it's bad news for Johnny the Undertaker. They may as well plough up the graveyard.' But no --

"The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,  
And says "Ye needna yoke the pleugh,  
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh,  
Tak ye nae fear:  
They'll be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh,  
In twa-three year."

Duncan was silent for a moment. The loft seemed to close in and grow dark. "I didn't know it then, but he meant the plague. It would fill the graveyards enough. It would kill many more than the Hornbooks of the world could help -- or hinder. There was another side to Hornbook, it turned out. Death went on with his story--"

"'I take souls one-by-one,' Death told me, hefting his scythe. 'It's personal, ye ken. The scythe cuts down one at a time, and one at a time you see my face.' He turned his Death's head grin on me and I felt a freeze in my bones down to my soul."

Methos's face was turned in Duncan's direction, but he seemed to be seeing something else, something long ago.

"'But Hornbook,' Death went on, 'By those same potions I told of, kills more than I do -- and not to all of them does he e'en show his face. The Webster's wife,' he said, counting on his fingers, 'got two pennies worth of the stuff to mend her head, took to bed and never spoke again. A country Laird,' he counted again, 'taken with the colic, sends his only son for Hornbook -- and for the price of two good ewes, the boy becomes the Laird himself.' Death counted yet again, 'you know that bonnie lass, that one for ill-brewn drink got a belly-full? To hide her shame, she trusts herself to Hornbook's care, and he sends her to her long home, if you understand me, to hide it there. And that's but a swatch! I could list all night -- until the next new moon -- all those he poisons, kills and slays -- and is well paid for it!'"

"'A terrible thing,' I said.

'That's not the half of it!' Death cried through his clenched grinning teeth. 'Those souls were mine to take! Not his!'

"I was getting a bit nervous again. Death was getting pretty well worked up by now, and might consider one soul in the hand worth two in the bush and carry me off after all. But then he became confidential. Almost -- chummy." Duncan smiled and began reciting once more:

"But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot,  
Tho' dinna ye be speakin o't;  
I'll nail the self-conceited sot,  
As dead's a herrin;  
Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat,  
He gets his fairin!"

"I never did get to hear what he had planned for Doctor Hornbook, though," Duncan said quietly. "For --  
\-- just as he began to tell,  
The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell  
Some wee short hour ayont the twal',  
Which rais'd us baith: "

Duncan said, very softly,

"I took the way that pleas'd mysel',  
And sae did Death."

Everyone was quiet. Joe was touching the strings of his guitar softly. Methos was slouched deep into the pillows of the couch, his eyes dark and unreadable. Amanda sat with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, looking from Duncan to Methos, then back again. Richie finally worked out the translation in his head and shuddered.

Duncan smiled. "Anyone for Haggis?"

  
******

To everyone's relief, Duncan was kidding about the Haggis. There was, however, rumbledethumps and sausages, pikelets and cream, roast turkey and bannocks (o' bear meal, naturally). They all dug in, even Joe, whose mortal constitution didn't stand up as well to all the alcohol that had been flowing -- but he knew how to pace himself. He wasn't a bartender for nothing. Replete, they sat back and patted their stomachs. And asked for one last story.

"I guess that's me," Richie said. "I don't know much about devils or Death or gay angels. I haven't lived as long as you guys."

"When you've lived as long as I have," Methos said in a lecturing tone, "you eventually learn --" he leaned towards Richie and said very seriously, "to make it up as you go along."

"That," Richie grinned, "I can do."

  


### Richie's Story: The Thirteen Yule Lads

"This happened a few years before I met Duncan," Richie said. "I had a ga-- group of friends. Most of us lived on the street, a few in foster homes. It was getting to be around Christmas time, and believe me, being a foster kid at Christmas isn't all comfort and joy. So one day we decided to take off. Just split. Go on a big adventure.

"This one guy in our group, Geir, was, I guess you'd say Icelandic-American. He wasn't a foster kid; he was living with grandparents. But he was an orphan. And suddenly he got this horrible overwhelming homesickness for Iceland. It didn't matter that he'd only been there once; it had been when his parents were alive, so it was a pretty strong memory.

"Well, there was no way we were going to get to Iceland. But we thought we'd sneak over the border into Canada. I know, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. It's up north, it snows there, and it was as close to Iceland as we were going to get. And besides, another guy, his name was Paulo, knew some people in Whistler. Paulo could also fix us up to look like a family of foster kids. He could comb his hair and look forty freaking years old." Richie shook his head, "He was good at stuff like that," he said. "He'd have been a great identity thief, if he hadn't become a priest instead.

"Whistler isn't far from Seacouver by train, but it's a lot farther away when you're driving an old beater of a Mustang. But we made it -- and then found out Paulo's friends weren't home. As in, gone for the season. Probably to Florida. But it was a house -- and a house could be broken into, which we did. It was cool. The electricity was on, there was a bar full of great stuff, and there was food in a pantry. These people were heeled. We were like, rich, for about two weeks.

"There was only one problem. Either the place was haunted or there was another gang like us around -- only bugfuck nuts.

"The first -- incident -- occurred around nightfall, about twelve days before Christmas. We heard a commotion outside and Mike went to the window. 'Dude!' he yelled, which was basically his reaction to everything. But we all crowded in front of the window and saw this guy running across the yard. He ran kinda funny -- he lurched like he had a wooden leg or something.

"'What's he chasing? A dog?' Paulo said.

"'Hell, that ain't no dog, city boy,' Johnny said. 'That's a fucking sheep.'

"We watched the sheep run around the yard for a while, the gimpy-legged guy chasing after it, until they finally took off down the street. We all agreed it was weird, but there was whisky to drink and a porn video collection to raid, so we forgot about it.

"The next night, Paulo woke us up and says someone is sneaking around the place, but we couldn't see who it was. But it looked like he'd been trying to break into the garage, bashing at the door with an old-fashioned milk-can. And then it's like -- every night someone tried to break in to the kitchen to steal stuff. Pots and pans, spoons, stuff from the fridge.

"Mike said, 'Maybe it's the sheep pervert.' But Geir shakes his head no. He seems pretty sure, so I'm like, do you know who it is? He said no, but it's gotta be some homeless guy.

"One night, we decided to have a feast, it being Christmas time. Paulo went out to the garage and came back with a ham. It was frozen, so we kept putting it in the microwave until chunks got unthawed enough to carve off it, then we fried it up in a big iron skillet.

"We'd been going through Paulo's friends' liquor cabinet pretty fast, so we just laughed when Paulo said he'd just chased some short freak out of the kitchen.

"Johnny stood up, kinda lurching, and started to go after him too. 'I'll get the runt!'

"I caught Johnny and made him sit down again. 'What was he doing?' I said to Paulo.

"'He was scraping away at the skillet we cooked all the ham in,' Paulo said. 'Slurpin' out the grease and scraping the pan with a big spoon.'

"'S-Scraping?' Geir said, kind of faint. I was starting to get scared. Like, were Paulo's friends all psychos, and not gone at all, but sneaking around the place? Or maybe the neighbors were all insane, and saw us as outsiders they could kill and skin and make into lampshades -- all right, I watch too many horror movies. But it was creepy.

"Then another night, I woke up to crashing noises in the kitchen -- I ran down there, expecting to see the pot licking weirdo from the night before, but when I got there, the kitchen was empty. Mike slammed into me from behind, and almost knocked me over, and when I stumbled into the kitchen, I stepped on a wooden spoon. There was another one by the door. We went and looked out, and saw another one on the steps going outside, and what looked like a big soup ladle in the yard.

'"Now that's just weird,' Johnny said.

"'This guy is really obsessed with kitchen stuff,' I said.

"'Who's down there?' There was Geir, coming down the stairs. Paulo held up a spoon. When Geir saw it, I thought he was going to keel over. He looked sick.

"By now, between the invasion of weirdos, and Geir acting kind of strange, I decided I was going to stand sentry the next night. I was going to see that bugger when he came in, and I was gonna catch him. Just what I was gonna do with him once I caught him, I don't know. I wasn't thinking that far ahead.

"I guess I closed my eyes for a minute, because all I know is I'm suddenly awake and a bowl sails past my head and crashes into the wall. And there's this -- this ugly dude crouching next to me. While I'm looking at him, wondering what the fuck to do, he reaches out this long orangutan arm and pulls another bowl out of the fridge. He grins at me and out comes this loooong tongue, and he licks the inside of the bowl, his eyes rolling up in his head like he's having a freaking orgasm.

"Meanwhile, me, I'm crabwalking out of the kitchen as fast as I can. I yell for the other guys, but they take their time coming, and by the time they get downstairs, Ugly Dude is gone.

"Of course nobody believed me. They thought I was just cribbing from Paulo. I asked Paulo what the dude he saw looked like. 'Short,' he said. 'He looked like Homer Simpson.'

'See, that's not what I saw at all,' I told them. "The one I saw was _ugly_. Coyote ugly. And _scary_ ugly. He looked like one of those things in Lord of the Rings."

"Hobbits," Amanda interjected, her chin in her hands.

"No, not a Hobbit," Richie said, rolling his eyes.

"An Elf?" Duncan said.

"Elves aren't scary," Richie scoffed.

"I don't know," Methos said. "They've always seemed pretty scary to me. Pattering around with their little curly boots. Ugh."

"Orcs," Richie said. "It looked like a midget Orc, and it had a long tongue. It sat there looking at me and licking the insides of the pot clean." He shuddered. "Gives me the creeps just thinking about it.

"So, we're all getting jittery. Doors slamming in the night didn't help, but I thought it was just one of those old house things until Geir totally lost it. He started babbling like a lunatic. 'It's the Lads, oh, god, the Lads -- do we have any cottage cheese? Do we have sausages? Throw them out in the yard!'

"We finally got him calmed down, and after a couple of shots -- which reminds me, I'm getting kind of dry here."

Duncan refilled his glass, and Richie went on.

"He told us we'd been visited by these guys called the Yule Lads.

"'Yule Lads?' We all just looked at him.

"'You know, like -- like Christmas Elves.'

"'Dude, that was no Christmas Elf licking the bowls,' I said. 'That thing was ugly.'

"'Well, the Lads started out as trolls,' Geir said. 'Historically, I mean. Their mother is a troll. Who eats kids.'

"'Oh, great. Is she likely to show up too?'

"'No, no, these days it's just the Lads, but...' he put his face in his hands. 'For one thing,' he said through his fingers, 'this is out of their territory. They live in Iceland, right? This is way too far south. And secondly they are legendary creatures _who do not exist.'_

" 'Oh.' I said. 'Like Christmas elves.'

"'And there are thirteen of them!' he was yelling and his teeth were chattering. 'They come for stuff to steal -- sausages and milk curd and candles --'

"'Sheep,' Mike said.

"'He wasn't going to steal the sheep. Just it's milk.'

"'Oh, good,' Mike said. 'That's okay, then.'

"'And some of them are just... they just lurk about, like peeping Toms. One just likes to sniff at doorways.'

"'Sniff? Like perverts?'

"'No, no. The kitchen,' Geir explained. 'Christmas baking. You know.'

"'Sounds like they're pretty hungry,' Johnny said. He shivered. 'And cold.'

"'There's a lot of famine in Iceland's history,' Geir said. 'And it snows all the time. It makes sense that legends would spring up --' He pounded his fist on the table. _'They do not exist.'_

"'I gotta beg to differ on that one,' I said.

"'Maybe,' Paulo told Geir, 'they came all this way south because of you.'

"'Me? No way! Why?'

"'But it makes sense,' said Paulo. 'You're so homesick for Iceland and all -- maybe your psychic um need for them uh called them into being.'

"'You watch too many B-movies,' Johnny said.

"'I see too many juvenile counselors,' Paulo said.

"'Well, something brought them here,' I said.

"'And more of them will be coming,' Geir said.

"'Oh, great," Johnny said. 'We should have gone to Palms Springs.'

"We did all we could. We set out the cheese and the sausages and an entire frozen pot roast out on the doorstep -- they were gone the next morning. One night something bumbled around the kitchen, sniffing at our empty chili cans, and another night something watched us through the windows, and we tried not to pay attention to it.

"Finally, Geir told us the last of them would come that night, and had us put some candles out by the door. We held some back in case of an emergency -- the snow was really coming down -- but something came in and stole the ones we had hidden inside, and left the ones outside on the porch. But Geir had also told us to leave our shoes by the window, and you know what? The Yule Lads left us presents! In our shoes! It's traditional, Geir said. Maybe he put them in there, I don't know.

"What was in your shoe?" Amanda leaned forward.

"A potato." Richie said. "I guess they didn't like me."

There was a moment's silence. Richie seemed to have ground to a stop.

"And what happened," Methos asked mildly, "when the Yule Cat showed up?"

"The Yule Cat?"

"Yule Cat. Big as a house. Long sharp teeth. A pet of the Yule Troll Family. Comes down out of the mountains to eat anyone who doesn't have new clothes for Christmas."

"Are you kidding me?" Richie was aghast. "No new clothes for Christmas, and get eaten besides? Man, that is not fair." He folded his arms over his chest angrily. "Some _Yule_ Cat." He coughed. "Lucky for us," he continued smoothly, "we all switched clothes. So they were new -- to _us_. Hand-me-down clothes for Christmas: that's the kind of tradition we were used to, anyway. So that old Yule Cat just kept on going."

"Right," Methos said dubiously.

"Okay, then, how's this? The giant Yule Cat came down out of the mountains and ate us all, but horked us up in a hairball later, so I lived to tell the tale."

"Okay, okay," Methos surrendered. "You switched clothes. Good plan."

"And we had a merry Christmas, until Paulo's friends came back from wherever they'd been, saw all the food gone, and the liquor cabinet a wasteland. They hit the roof and threw us out. So we left -- Paulo lifted one of their credit cards and we got all the way back to Seacouver before they cancelled it."

"Too bad I wasn't with you," Amanda said. "I could have gotten--" she stopped at a look from Duncan.

"Man, it was one of the best Christmases I've ever had," Richie said wistfully. "It had _everything._ A lot of scenic snow _outside,_ a fireplace and central heating to keep us warm inside, good friends, good food, lots of alcohol, presents, and someone trying to rob you blind. What more could you wish for?"

"What more indeed," Methos said.

They all raised their glasses to that.

  
********

Their tales are done, but their stories continue. The Yule celebration winds down, presents are packed up, coats are donned, and the guests depart, one by one...

Joe made his way to an after-after hours blues club, to show off his fine guitar to his jamming buddies. "Just like the one Robert Johnson played," one said. "Yep. Got it for Christmas from a friend of mine." "Wait a minute..." another musician inspected Joe's guitar closely, "this could be _the_ guitar Robert Johnson played." "Naw, can't be." "Look here, there's a hmm, man, you better check this out." Another musician eyed it. "This guitar is either a _real_ steal or your friend is _well_ heeled." "Yeah." Joe touched the strings softly. "Something like that."

Richie stopped at an all-night diner across from a church. A light was on in the vestry. "Sorry to call so late, but," Richie said into his cell phone, "the light is on. Yeah, it's me. Yeah, you too. I was just thinking about the gang. Across the street. Yeah, sure. I'll be here."

Back at the loft, Amanda was busy stuffing as much leftover Yule food into a bag as she could make fit.

"Shall I bring the truck around?" Methos said.

"A girl gets hungry," Amanda said, shoving a cookie in sideways among the bread and cakes.

Duncan put his arms around her from behind. "It'll be there in the morning."

"But I won't, Duncan, darling," she said, pointedly looking at Methos, who shrugged and looked innocent.

"Are you sure?" Duncan looked up and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I thought you had a date. Didn't you think she had a date, Methos?"

"Absolutely," Methos said. He offered Amanda a plate. "Fruitcake?"

"A date?" Amanda looked from one man to the other.

"A date," Duncan nodded firmly. "With someone named... Vinnie, I think his name was?"

"Vinnie and Dylan," Methos agreed. "This is good," he said around a mouthful of fruitcake. Is there rum in this?"

Amanda let the bag of goodies fall to the floor with a thump and put her arms around Duncan. Methos put his arms around both of them, still eating fruitcake.

"I thought you'd _never_ ask," Amanda said.

****

And there our story ends.

For now.

 _\-- End --_


End file.
